Lonesome Crowded Blogosphere: October 2009

Friday, October 23, 2009

Review: "Juliet, Naked" by Nick Hornby

A decade and a half after making a name for himself with High Fidelity, Nick Hornby has at last written a novel that, while not topping his debut, comes closer to the mark than any of his more recent output.

Juliet, Naked centers once again on the nature of male musical obsession. In this case it's Duncan, a middle-aged fanatic fan of reclusive singer/songwriter Tucker Crowe—imagine a cross between Jeff Mangum and Blood On The Tracks-era Dylan—who hasn't released any new music in more than two decades. As the novel opens, Duncan and his longtime girlfriend Annie, both residents of a small seaside English town, are touring the United States—specifically, visiting U.S. landmarks as they pertain to Tucker Crowe: the home of his ex-lover who inspired his best-known album, the bathroom stall where he sporadically decided to drop out of public life, etc.

Duncan loves Tucker Crowe in a way many music fans understand, even though that devotion has prevented him from doing anything larger with his life. Annie, on the other hand, tolerates Crowe because he means so much to Duncan. But when the two clash over their responses to a long-awaited new Crowe record—a stripped down, Basement Tapes-esque recasting of his most famous record—the pair split, setting off the interpersonal conflicts and fortuitous encounters that encompass the rest of the novel.

Though the three central characters are fleshed-out well enough, it's Duncan who's the most lifelike, if for no other reason than perhaps because he's the character closest to Hornby's heart. Hornby obviously has a pretty good handle on the inner workings of men and their musical fixations, and like High Fidelity, Naked capitalizes on exploring that mindset. Yet here Hornby also tackles the other side of the equation: the women and friends that have to put up with—and even love—people like... well, let's be honest here, people like us.

Hornby is at his best when dealing that fanatic passion, and Juliet, Naked ranks with the writer's early works on that same subject (High Fidelity, Fever Pitch). Though the plot stretches the limits of credibility—including unexpected Transatlantic romances, contrived family reunions and plot conventions that resolve themselves too easily—it's a satisfying and rewarding read in a way that Hornby's books often aren't anymore.

Like the album it's named for, Juliet, Naked's back-to-basics approach yields dividends, even if it still isn't quite as strong as its creator's greatest hits.

(Originally posted to Under The Radar 10/23/09)

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Kings of Convenience: Declaration of Dependence review

For those about to rock, Kings of Convenience salute you. That's rock as in "rocking chair" or "rock yourself to sleep."

On their third proper LP, Norway's answer to Simon & Garfunkel have toned down their already low-key demeanor, removing from the mix anything that doesn't fall under the category of voices or wooden, stringed instruments.

As such, this disc ends up coming out of a similar space as the duo's debut, Quiet Is the New Loud, rather than their last effort, 2004's more textured (and generally more satisfying) Riot on an Empty Street.

Declaration isn't without its memorable moments, such as the subtle bounce of "Mrs. Cold" and "Boat Behind" or the autumnal "Freedom and Its Owner" and "Renegade." But the record is vastly frontloaded, its first half largely more dynamic and nuanced than its potentially nap-inducing coda.

Though the proceedings have a tendency to run together after a point, a remix campaign would be welcome, similar to Versus, the eclectic electronic remix set that followed the pair's debut.

Produced by the band and Davide Bertolini, who manned the boards on their previous effort, all the typical Kings of Convenience ingredients are here, but they don't add up to quite the right recipe.

Maybe it's the long lag time between releases that accounts for such a lackluster result. Erlend Øye has spent the last few years prodigiously pouring forth new music—both on his own and with The Whitest Boy Alive—so maybe the two are just creatively tapped out.

Whatever the reason, this uninspired offering isn't enough to satisfy the long-building itch for new Kings tunes—and, if the past is any indication—aside from a few brief tours we may not hear much from the duo for another four years.

(Originally published in Under The Radar Fall 2009 and posted to its Web site)

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Black Dynamite review

Cancel the Oscars, Black Dynamite is the best film of 2009 – assuming, that is, your definition of fine cinema includes kung fu, adulterated malt liquor, fightin’ The Man, drug-addled orphans, pimps, exploding cars going over cliffs, soul music, helicopter explosions, Vietnam vets, dudes getting throw through walls, nun chuck fights and former first lady Pat Nixon being pimp-slapped.

Probably oughta cancel next year’s Oscars, too.

Lovingly shot on Super 16 film, the blaxploitation homage Black Dynamite could easily pass as a lost chapter of Grindhouse, Robert Rodriguez & Quentin Tarantino’s 2006 exploitation double feature. And while Grindhouse focused on zombies and car chase movies, Black Dynamite is, not surprisingly, all blaxploitation. Though it’s done in the same spirit as I’m Gonna Git You Sucka! and Don’t Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood, Dynamite draws its humor from making an intentionally bad movie, rather than mocking such pictures. The effects are corny, the editing choppy, the stunts poorly done, the acting stunted and the script full of holes – all on purpose, naturally.

As much as plot synopsis is necessary, our hero begins the film by investigating the death of his brother Jimmy (Jimmy Dynamite? Jimmy Black Dynamite? Just Jimmy? We’re never told) at the hands of The Man. From there the tale spirals to smack-addicted orphans (Because orphans don’t have parents!”), Byzantine riddles around malt liquor ad campaigns, “kung fu treachery,” and a conspiracy leading all the way to the White – er, Honky House.

As Black Dynamite, Michael Jai White (best known as Spawn) is equal parts Black Belt Jones, Shaft, Superman and John Holmes. But while Dynamite runs the show, those around him are half of what gives the movie its charm, including memorable performances from Arsenio Hall and In Living Color’s Tommy Davidson.

Rather than use a traditional marketing campaign, much of Black Dynamite’s press has come through viral marketing – smart move, considering the audience they’re looking to reach. It’s the year’s most quotable movie, but it’s only in limited release now. But unlike this year’s Halloween phenom Paranormal Activity, it’s probably not likely to go beyond that. So see it while you can – it’s gritty, action-packed, hilarious and authentic. It’s dynamite!

Black Dynamite is playing in limited release in Los Angeles, Atlanta, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago and Seattle.

(Also posted to Under The Radar 10/23/09)

Built To Spill: There Is No Enemy review

You know a Built To Spill song when you hear it, and within just over a minute of “Aisle 13,” the opening number on There Is No Enemy, there’s no doubt that you’re in capable hands. Much like Yo La Tengo before them, Doug Martsch and Co. have built a career out of being solidly reliable and meeting expectations, not exceeding them. Which is not to say that familiarity breeds contempt. Rather than being stunted by their own reliability and high levels of critical praise (lookin’ at you, Flaming Lips), Boise’s finest have put together an offering that feels firmly rooted in their best work while avoiding repeating themselves.

Produced by Martsch and Dave Trumfio (Grandaddy, Billy Bragg & Wilco), Enemy dials back some of the lesser elements of their previous effort, 2006’s You In Reverse, most notably the distortion and the extended running times. As with Yo La Tengo, Built To Spill know how to wind together a lengthy song, but they’re at their best when they restrain that impulse and keep it (relatively) short. As such, Enemy has only a handful of lengthier jams, rightly keeping the focus on (relative) brevity, especially on the opening trio of “Aisle 13,” “Hindsight” and “Nowhere Lullabye,” all of which recall 1994’s There’s Nothing Wrong With Love more than they do some of the band’s later works.

On tracks where they linger, such as “Done” and closer “Tomorrow,” the band avoids the pitfalls that befell them last time around both by varying the tracks enough to avoid overstaying their welcome and by staying firmly in mid-tempo territory, rather than the up-tempo aggressive playing that marked much of You In Reverse but wore itself out too quickly (as on tracks like “Goin’ Against Your Mind” and “Conventional Wisdom”).

Yet for all the stylistic similarities to their earlier works, Enemy is 2000s-era BTS all the way through, with Martsch and Trumfio again relying on the fuller sound that’s marked their last few LPs, rather than the lower-fi sonic palate of their more formative years. The record holds together well as a cohesive whole, largely more memorable than their past two releases, thanks in large part to tracks like “Done,” one of the album’s standout tunes. Centered on a two-chord pattern, Martsch sings with a frustrated malaise: “All I want is for your to make up your mind.” By the end of the nearly 7-minute song, however, all that’s given way to a mournful, hazy guitar solo coda. Elsewhere, the ferocity and punkish immediacy of “Pat” contrasts much of the rest of the disc’s contemplation, such as on tracks like the bouncy, effortless “Planting Seeds.”

Doug Martsch may take his time putting together an album, but think of all the bands that have risen and fallen in just the three years since the last BTS record. If you want a speedy output, go find Clap Your Hands Say Yeah – or better yet, Bloc Party. If, on the other hand, you want something that you might still be interested in listening to a year or more down the line, then Doug Martsch is your dude. It’s been worth the wait.

(Originally posted in slightly different form to Spectrum Culture, 10/16/09)

Hallelujah The Hills: Colonial Drones review

Poor Jeff Mangum. Dude released one of the best records of a generation and the greatest thanks he gets is a bunch of half-assed rip-off artists appropriating his best ideas. Seems like every literate guy with an acoustic guitar and half an idea thinks he can holler out some cryptic, yelped vocals backed by folksy, lo-fi baroque arrangements augmented by stray brass and string accompaniment and call it an album.

But Hallelujah the Hills are at their best on this sophomore set when they ignore that influence and instead, turn up the volume. That's a basic tenet of rock 'n' roll that too many indie bands forget - sometimes it's best to just let the noise speak for itself, rather than going the artier route. Even though the Boston sextet frequently recalls Neutral Milk Hotel (particularly on the openers "A Guide To The World's Most Fantastic Monsters" and "The Might Come Back Club"), elsewhere there are hints of Pavement and Modest Mouse, including "You Better Hope (You Die Before Me)."

But when they do rock, they do it well, as on "Blank Passports," which opens with a solid forward propulsion, eventually growing into a straight-forward rocker complemented by crunchy distortion and a tasteful synth line in the back of the mix. "Allied Lions," on the other hand, brings the best of both worlds, mixing the aggression of both those bands (including feedback chaos as the song closes) while incorporating smatterings of trumpet and a shouting chorus. Closer "Flight of the Paper Pilots" could've fit well on a late-period Guided By Voices release (and stands taller than much of Robert Pollard's post-GBV work).

But for every moment where the band gets its rocks off, there's two moments of thoughtful, constrained craftsmanship, including somber moments of cello and piano tinklings. "The Echo Sequence" opens with plucked strings, working in gentle guitars and muted vocals before adding drums, and over the course of nearly six minutes, creates a sonic wave that's always building but never truly crests.

Colonial Drones is a satisfactory, if not entirely rewarding listen, much of it spent recycling old ideas by better bands. Still, there's plenty of indication here that the band may well grow beyond their most obvious influences. Hell, even the Decemberists got tagged with Neutral Milk Hotel comparisons on their early releases, and things seem to have turned out fairly well for them, right?

(Originally posted to Spectrum Culture 10/15/09)